Scholarships Now Available

Scholarships Now Available

Dana (pronounced “DAH-nuh”), noun. Sanskrit, Pali, roughly “gift, alms, donation”; voluntary giving of materials, energy, or wisdom (dharma) to others; generosity; regarded as one of the most important Buddhist virtues.

I grew up during the 1980s recession that brought us Ronald Regan and Black Monday. Between 1980 – 1987, my hometown of Elmira, New York hemorrhaged so many jobs our city’s economic crisis made the New York Times. My grandfather lost his job and pension in 1983. My father lost his job in 1985. After my parents’ divorce, he was functionally homeless for the next three years as he searched for steady work. During that same period, my mother, twin brothers, and I frequently lived on a lentil diet or ate dinners at my grandparents’ house.  

As I began to think about careers, everyone gave me the same advice. Be practical. Get a safe and steady job. Work for the government. Amass what you can now because one day everything will fall apart. 

Creativity felt like an impractical luxury I could not afford.  

And yet, creativity called to my soul. 

It wasn’t until I experienced a life-threatening bout of Lyme disease that I truly realized creativity was what sustained me and made me whole. As I embraced my creative life, mentors appeared. I received many generous gifts that led me to this job. 

Maybe you too feel like creativity is a gift—one you can’t afford.

And yet, maybe creativity also calls to your soul. 

While I don’t talk about it much, Dana has always been a part of my life. It’s a core tenant of my values. In 2020, I am going to put those values into practice within my coaching business. This year, I will award four partial scholarships to be used towards a one-hour coaching session or one of the four- or eight-week classes I’ll be teaching through Revising U. 

Scholarships will be awarded based on the following criteria: 

  1. Financial need 
  2. Dedication to the craft of writing and potential for success 
  3. A clear plan for how you will use this service to benefit your writing and others
  4. A commitment to be a good literary citizen and pay this gift forward 

 
Preference will be given to people with significant financial need and those whose stories have been marginalized. 
 
If you believe you would benefit from one of these scholarships, please send an email to lisa.cooper.ellison@gmail.com. In your email, please answer the following questions: 
 

  1. What financial barriers do you face when accessing writing classes? 
  2. What classes have you taken and/or what experiences have you participated in that demonstrate your commitment to your writing life? What successes have you had? 
  3. How will you use this scholarship to benefit your writing and others? 
  4. How will you serve as a good literary citizen and pay this gift forward? 

Questions? Send me an email. I love hearing from you. 

Write On, Friends!

Lisa Cooper Elison

Five Questions that Can Help You (Re)Define the Why of Your Writing Life

Five Questions that Can Help You (Re)Define the Why of Your Writing Life

Every essay and story must contain a why. The why is the story’s point and the reason we should care about the work. It’s often phrased as why this, or why now, or why you. As the writer, it’s your job to clearly articulate the why of your writing in the most engaging way. But have you ever thought about the why of your writing life?

Every New Year’s Day, I write about my year and examine the whys of my creative and personal life. It’s a practice I started at age eleven. For thirty-four years, I’ve never missed an entry. On this New Year’s Day, I looked at my past ten submissions and examined what I’d learned and how my writing life has evolved.

Thomas Mann said, “A writer is someone for whom writing is more difficult than it is for other people.” This is largely because as writers we care about the outcome. In my teens and early twenties, I cared deeply about spinning a good yarn. Yet most of my pieces were thinly veiled short stories I used to understand my experiences. In my thirties, I wrote to hear myself think.

During the following decade, everything changed. Between 2010 – 2020, I earned a master’s degree in counseling, contracted Lyme disease, experienced the kind of existential crisis that only a prolonged, life-threatening illness can expose, and determined to redefine my career and myself.

As a part of that redefinition, I started a business, wrote two books, taught writing classes, and helped numerous writers with the stories they cherish most. For a while, my why was about helping others heal through the power of their stories. When I got sick, I used the power of story to heal myself. In wellness, I’ve combined these goals into a creative calling I’ve labeled Revising U.

It doesn’t matter if you’re writing memoir, personal essays, fiction, or poetry. All writing is an attempt to understand the self, be it our shadow or our ability to transcend difficult circumstances. In creative nonfiction, we excavate real life in search of truth. In fiction, we push past the bounds of reality as a way to exemplify truth. In poetry, we use space, brevity, and precision to laser in on something essential. The question is not whether the writing affects you, but what effect you want the writing to have on you and the reader.   

My why is simple. I write to transform myself. I help other writers write, revise, and transform their stories into powerful works of art because art has the capacity to heal us. In that centered, whole place, we can create a better world.

Consider your why for a minute.

Why do you write
            even when it’s difficult?
            even when you’ve got nothing to say?
            even when you dare not express that forbidden idea or thought?

If you’re hearing crickets, use the following five questions to find your why.

  1. What do you write about? Are there specific themes that regularly emerge in your work?
  2. When do you write? Do your words flow freely from the depths of depression or during moments of joy? Is writing a way to understand your darkness or record the moments you don’t want to forget?
  3. Who do you share your writing with? Family? Friends? Literary Magazines? People on the Internet? If your answer is no one, meditate on this: If you could share your work with one person or group who would that be? Under what conditions would sharing your writing make you smile?
  4. How do you write? Do you love the feel of pen and paper or the clickety-clack of fingers on keys? Are you someone who has to speak your words?
  5. Where do you find inspiration? Do you go inwards or travel to a destination?

Once you’ve explored these questions, consider what they say about the role of creativity in your life. How does it help you make meaning from your experiences? In what ways does creativity make you a better person? Develop a clear and compelling why for 2020. Then ask yourself how you can add more of this why to your writing life. If your why doesn’t feel satisfactory, think about what you can do to build a better one.

Looking for assistance in this area? Send me an email.  

Dialogue Lab Two: The Power of Subtext

Dialogue Lab Two: The Power of Subtext

My grandfather was a huge fan of saying “actions speak louder than words.” He believed keen observation would prevent me from being taken advantage of. While this lesson has served me well in my personal life, it’s also wise dialogue writing advice.

Great dialogue contains two messages. The first is shared through the direct dialogue exchanged between the two characters. The second is the unspoken or hidden message revealed through characters’ body language and facial expressions. We call that unspoken message subtext. 

Tristine Rainer, author of Your Life as Story, calls subtext a “form of dialogue that contributes to the dance of power.” When subtext contradicts the message in your direct dialogue it amplifies the dramatic tension between characters and heightens the scene’s stakes. To understand what this looks like, let’s check out a few examples.

There are several ways to include subtext in your writing. Hemingway’s short story “Hills Like White Elephants” is about a couple contemplating an abortion. In this section, lines of direct dialogue coupled with the girl’s silence reveal each characters’ true feelings about the choice in front of them.

“It’s really an awfully simple operation, Jig,” the man said. “It’s not really an operation at all.”

The girl looked at the ground the table legs rested on.


“I know you wouldn’t mind it, Jig. It’s really not anything. It’s just to let the air in.”


The girl did not say anything.


“I’ll go with you and I’ll stay with you all the time. They just let the air in and then it’s all perfectly natural.”


“Then what will we do afterward?”


“We’ll be fine afterward. Just like we were before.”

Sometimes writers reveal subtext through gestures and observations as Pam Houston does in this scene from “Highwater,” an autobiographical short story from her collection Cowboys are My Weakness.

“So.” His voice made me jump. “What do you think our potential is in the long-long run?” It sounded like stocks.

“In the long-long run,” I said, “I think our potential is good.” His free hand drummed on the dashboard.

“Do you think I can satisfy you, sexually and otherwise, for a long time?”

I said, “I think you can satisfy me for a long time.” The veins around his temples looked like they would burst.

Without ever saying so, we know this man was hoping for another answer.

Sometimes subtext occurs between the story’s characters and the reader. Check out this phenomenal scene between the killer Chigurh and the owner of a convenience store from No Country for Old Men. In this scene, Chigurh is irritated by the proprietor’s “nosy” questions about what he’s been up to.  

CHIGURH
…What’s the most you’ve ever lost on a coin toss?

PROPRIETOR
Sir?

CHIGURH
The most. You ever lost. On a coin toss.

 PROPRIETOR
I don’t know. I couldn’t say.

Chigurh is digging in his pocket. A quarter: he tosses it. He slaps it onto his forearm but keeps it covered. Call it.

PROPRIETOR
Call it?

 CHIGURH
Yes.

PROPRIETOR
For what?

 CHIGURH
Just call it.

 PROPRIETOR
Well — we need to know what it is we’re callin’ for here.

CHIGURH
You need to call it. I can’t call it for you. It wouldn’t be fair. It wouldn’t even be right.

PROPRIETOR
I didn’t put nothin’ up.

CHIGURH
Yes you did. You been putting it up your whole life. You just didn’t know it. You know what date is on this coin?

When watching this scene, it’s clear the proprietor is afraid of his mysterious customer, but he has no idea who Chigurh really is or the stakes he’s playing for. But the reader does.

So, what can you do to increase the subtext in your dialogue?

  • When reading, identify passages where writers have created effective subtext. Pay attention to the hidden messages and how they’re communicated to you and the other characters.
  • In your own stories, analyze passages of dialogue that feel flat. Determine the purpose of the exchange. Identify what you want to say and what you hope to convey. Sometimes it helps to do this with a writing partner or workshop group. Make sure that at least part of what you wish to convey is unspoken.
  • Look for contradictory gestures, body language, vocal tics, and observations you can use to reveal the true meaning of the conversation.

Like all skills, subtext is one that requires practice. Once you get the hang of it, you’ll write engaging scenes readers will love. 

 

Dialogue Lab One: Dialect versus Diction

Dialogue Lab One: Dialect versus Diction

In early October, my father experienced a medical emergency that sent me to Upstate New York. During his recovery, I spent three weeks in my childhood hometown. During hospital visits and errands, I listened to the conversations around me—not just what was said, but the words each person used to convey their messages.

Dialogue is the lifeblood of any scene. When executed effectively, it catapults the reader into the heart of a story. The very best dialogue feels authentic and flows seamlessly from line to line. But don’t be fooled. Effective dialogue requires keen observation, advanced planning, and lots and lots of practice.

 Let’s start with two scenes.

Scene One

The pizza was cold when it arrived. Frank bit his slice then dropped it onto the table. “Man, those motherfuckers must’ve given us a bad batch.”

“A bad batch?” Gene raised an eyebrow in Frank’s direction.

“Yeah, a bad batch. You gotta watch out for dranos in a place like this—you know, people with nothing left to lose.”

Gene nodded as he pulled out a pack of Camels. Before he could retrieve a cigarette for himself, Frank expectantly held out his hand. Gene cleared his throat then handed him the pack. “Yeah, I know what you mean about dranos. Those fuckers will drain you dry.”

 Scene Two

A wall of heat blasted us as we entered the house. The thermostat hovered somewhere around eighty, even though it was only thirty-two degrees outside. After a few quick hugs, Grandma ushered us to the back bedroom. “I saved the medium-grit sheets for you’ins,” she said. “They’re the warmest ones.”

Eying the window I planned to open when we laid down for bed, I smiled and said, “They’ll do just fine.”

Even without physical descriptions, there’s no confusing Frank and Gene for Grandma. Two aspects of the writing differentiate these characters: dialect and diction.

You can identify the very best characters with only a few lines of dialogue. Often, their diction reads like a fingerprint.

According to Merriam Webster, diction is a “choice of words especially with regard to correctness, clearness, or effectiveness.”

When writing dialogue, correctness means choosing the right words for your characters.

 To develop a character’s diction, consider the following: 

  • Slang: Slang is time- and region-dependent. For example, something might be groovy, rad, or dank depending on when you grew up. Someone might make you wicked nervous or hella nervous depending on whether you’re from Boston or California.
  •  Phraseology: One character might use davenport to describe a piece of living room furniture. Another might say sofa. A third might say couch. Each choice reveals another aspect of who your character is and how they view the world.
  • Rhythm: A nervous character might speak quickly or run several sentences together while a depressed character might speak slowly and or use frequent pauses.
  • Idioms or Personal Phrases: An idiom is a figure of speech that means something different than a literal translation of the words would lead one to believe. Many popular clichés are also idioms. Think “piece of cake,” “wear my heart on my sleeve,” and “live off the fat of the land.” While you don’t want to fill your work with clichés, see if there’s a way to create some fresh idioms for your dialogue. A great way to find fresh idioms is to pay attention to the phrases used by people around you. For example, my brother is a fan of saying, “You’re risking a scab” anytime someone engages in risky behavior or makes a smart-aleck remark.

Novelist John Gregory Dunne recorded interesting phrases he heard on notecards he kept in his wallet.

Another way to increase the authenticity of your work is through the careful use of dialect. Again, quoting Merriam Webster, dialect is “a regional variety of language distinguished by features of vocabulary, grammar, pronunciation from other regional varieties, and constituting together with them a single language.”

In writing, dialect could look like “Y’all, I ain’t got a dog in that fight,” or “Yo, that’s some mad fresh pizza.”

While the occasional use of dialect writing can add flavor to a text, heavy use of dialect can backfire. This is more likely to happen when your character is from a group you don’t belong to or the dialect includes a barrage of phonetically spelled words and unfamiliar slang. At the very least, poorly executed dialect overwhelms readers with its unfamiliarity. At the very worst, it can reinforce negative stereotypes and discriminatory views.

Dialect writing is tricky. There are often nuances in regional speech patterns that even native speakers get wrong. When these faux pas occur, writers lose credibility with their readers.

The key to using diction and dialect effectively is to do your research.

  • Listen to recordings and historically accurate film clips from the time or region you’re writing about.
  • Look for what makes a speech pattern unique and capture that in your work.
  • Use dialect sparingly and avoid overuse of contractions and phonetic spellings. Instead of writing a word like “gotta” on the page, consider writing “have got to.” When reading aloud you can always use the shortened form to enhance the sound of your work.

In her blog post “A Writer’s Guide to Speech Patterns,” writer Mara Mahan has an excellent list of questions every writer should consider when designing a character’s dialect and diction. Her questions cover topics like a character’s rate of speech, use of positive or negative statements, and the importance of considering your context. For example, would your character speak to her best friend in the same way she speaks to her parents?

Fleshing out your dialogue is worth the effort. Effective dialect and diction can make the difference between a publication and work that gets buried in a slush pile. 

Thankfully, my father is recovering from his serious illness. This means I can focus on the gifts this experience has given to me, such as the chance to develop some mindful attention to dialogue. You don’t need a medical emergency to sharpen these skills. The Thanksgiving holiday is a great time to train your ear. As you sit with family members, listen to the words they use. Carry a few notecards in your pocket. When you encounter an interesting phrase, jot it down.

The Death of Sonny

The Death of Sonny

This personal essay was a finalist in the

 Hippocampus Literary Magazine’s Remember In November Contest

   

  “Without smoke, you can’t see the light.”

  My husband Alex said this to me while explaining why professional tours use fog machines in their light shows. The particles reflect the light so we can see the beam’s path. Without the particles, the beauty is lost.

 I already knew about smoke and beauty. As kids, my brothers and I had been firebugs who created blazes in the abandoned brickyard near our house. Some fires were taller than we were. Heat waves shimmered in the smoky boundary between fresh air and flame, creating an ethereal blur we called the place between worlds. Sometimes we jumped through those flames hoping to boundary hop into this magical kingdom of particles and light.

Sitting in the band’s touring van as we waited for our new driver, Mario, I was once again surrounded by smoke. It was March 5, 1997, halfway through the European leg of Biohazard’s Mata Leão tour. Alex’s band was Biohazard’s opener. I’d joined the tour a week ago, half-hoping to find myself. Today was the band’s day off. We’d spent the early afternoon wandering through Innsbruck, a small city high in the Austrian Alps. At 3:30 p.m., we boarded the van and prepared to leave for Prague. Mario was supposed to arrive at four. It was now five-thirty.

 He was late, even by rock-n-roll standards.

 

Four Backstory Traps and How to Escape Them

Four Backstory Traps and How to Escape Them

I remember the exact moment when I decided to become a writer. It was the winter of 1987. I was in sixth-period study hall, gripping Stephen King’s Pet Sematary. The book catapulted me into the world of Louis Creed and Jud Crandall, making the rowdy seventh graders around me disappear. Every day that week, I stayed up well past midnight, unable to put Pet Sematary down.

I spent the next few years in various states of terror as I devoured King’s most famous works including It, The Stand, and The Tommyknockers. Stephen King is a masterful storyteller. His skills with dialogue, plot, character development, and scene-setting are incredible. But even during those early years of fandom, I regularly ran across what felt like a major flaw in his books: the backstory problem. 

Early chapters in King’s novels were absolutely riveting. But just as the story began to truck along, he’d interrupt the forward-moving story with a fifty-plus-page U-turn into the past. I remember little of those forays into backstory other than my fervent desire to skip them.

This summer, I experienced a similar backstory trap as I revised my memoir. Despite everything I tell students and clients, I found myself loading early chapters with backstory about my childhood experiences. The problem had my internal editor on high alert. Every move felt wrong, and yet I continued to scramble around in the past, believing it was all essential. 

As I continued to wrestle with this problem, I researched common backstory traps to see which one I’d fallen into. 

Problem One: The Kitchen Sink

Authors want readers to know who their characters really are. And, because the past often predicts the future, sometimes they share everything leading up to the story present. While some backstory might be essential, most of it is unnecessary.  Even when a scene from the past seems like a perfect fit, it’s important to justify its presence. 

In the Writer’s Digest article “How to Weave Backstory Seamlessly into Your Novel,” agent Jeff Kleinman is quoted as saying “Backstory is the stuff the author figures the reader should know—not stuff the character desperately wants to tell the reader. If it’s critical to the character, it’s critical to the reader, and then it’s not backstory.” Look at what the character wants to say and not what you as the writer want to convey.

Solution: Take time to understand who your characters are and what your story is about. Once you’ve solidified the narrative arc, think about what backstory items directly affect your story. Ask your characters what they desperately need to say for readers to understand them.

Problem Two: The Dump

In early drafts, it’s not uncommon for writers to dump essential backstory into the first few chapters of the book. Writers who use this technique sometimes hope wounds revealed on page seventeen will have a huge payoff on page 210. If you’ve sunk a good hook into the reader, they might employ the skip technique to work their way around your backstory dump. But, if your hook is insufficient or the story doesn’t actually start until page eighty, readers are likely to put your book down. Even when readers stick with your story, they might not remember that page seventeen detail if there’s a lengthy gap between initial mention and payoff.

Solution: Place backstory properly. While some backstory belongs in early chapters, other episodes might work best as flashbacks that amplify a pivotal moment. Instead of planting that wound on page seventeen, consider a flashback at the moment when that wound matters most. This can be particularly powerful if the flashback is essential to the conflict or understanding a character’s motivation during a specific scene.

 

Problem Three: The Stand-In

Sometimes backstory is a stand-in for character development. Interesting tidbits from the past are used to create intrigue but they tell us nothing about a character’s present experience. In her essay “How to Tell if Backstory is Sabotaging Your Novel,” Roz Morris writes about this problem using a character who was raised by theater folk as an example. “The writer hopes [the theater upbringing] will make her interesting. It does, to a point, but it’s only the start. The real value is in what it makes her. Does she crave security and a settled life as a result, or has it left her with itchy feet? Perhaps these twin urges are at odds inside her, sometimes pulling her one way, sometimes the other.”

Solution: Develop characters fully in the forward-moving narrative. Place them in interesting scenes where you can show who they really are. Give them quirky mannerisms and fresh dialogue only they can deliver. Let their reactions to other characters and your story’s conflicts define them.  If a colorful backstory exists, make sure it defines who they currently are.

 

Problem Four: Off-Page Issues 

Sometimes we’re stuck in backstory because it’s safe. We know what happened and how we feel about it.  Early chapters in my memoir introduce important events leading up to my brother’s suicide. Everything else happens after he’s gone. As I approached the chapters leading to that tragic moment, swells of grief washed over me. I realized that while I likely have some on-the-page backstory issues (dumping, anyone?), some of my problems are internal. 

While circling around backstory to avoid painful feelings is a common memoir problem, writers working on thinly-veiled novels are also at risk. This problem can even happen when the plot differs greatly from the writer’s life, but the feeling tone of the conflict rings true to the writer’s experience.  

Solution: Practice self-care and manage expectations about your progress. Allow yourself to take breaks, write at a slower pace, and affirm the power of the process. Give yourself permission to work on something else until the story feels less intense.

Once I realized my biggest backstory trap was off the page, I pushed back a deadline, wrote for shorter periods, and completed more meditations.  As I accepted this part of the writing life, revising became easier. Three weeks ago, my story began sharing its secrets through late-night wakeups and flashes of inspiration. Now that we’re on speaking terms, I can ask my characters what parts of my backstory are absolutely essential.

Meet Our Memoirists: Lisa Cooper Ellison

Meet Our Memoirists: Lisa Cooper Ellison

This post was originally published on the Moving Forwards Memoir Collective Blog 

 It takes a special kind of person to lean into other people’s stories and help them untangle the knotted threads at their centers. It takes a special kind of person to lean into her own story and give it voice with the hope that others in similar circumstances might feel less alone. Author and teacher Lisa Cooper Ellison is, without a doubt, that special kind of person.

Lisa and I first connected over our shared goal of exploring the psychological journeys memoir writers inevitably face when they endeavor to commit words to the page to make meaning of their painful experiences. Since then, I’ve had the privilege of being on the receiving end of Lisa’s generosity of spirit and boundless compassion on more than one occasion and have witnessed firsthand her gentle yet persistent guidance as a writing companion and friend. Her work as a writing coach and editor has enabled her to build a meaningful network comprised of writers at all levels who understand the value of creative support. As a former mental health counselor, Lisa knows the kind of work that’s necessary to peel back the layers of trauma and find healing. As a trauma survivor and memoirist, Lisa has the added credibility of having done that work herself. She’s in the process of completing a memoir called, Lucky Me that confronts the lasting grief of her brother’s mental health crisis and death by suicide. She’s published essays on the same themes in The Guardian, Kenyon Review Online and other publications, she’s written multiple pieces on the craft of writing, and she’s compiled her insights about trauma writing into her forthcoming book, How to Write about What Keeps You up at Night without Staying up All Night.  I recently asked Lisa to tell us more about her writing and her work with other writers, and I invite you to watch our author chat below and read the interview that follows to learn more about this inspiring author.

Heart Speak, The Writing Advice Column #6: When You’re a Writer Who’s Also Being Written About

Heart Speak, The Writing Advice Column #6: When You’re a Writer Who’s Also Being Written About

 

This post was originally published on the Moving Forwards Memoir Collective Blog 

 

 

 

Dear Lisa,

I am writing a memoir about growing up feeling unloved and unwanted by my mother. My oldest son is a writer too. Originally, his MFA thesis was a fictional piece about a group of churches we encountered. Recently, he changed genres and presented his work as a memoir of “his bad childhood.” Three agents want it. 

I know my husband and I did our very best. As I write my book, I am thinking about my own mother and how she will feel.

My son doesn’t want me to read his book, though he intends to verify things with me as he gets his proposal ready. As a writer, I am excited for him and I wish him every success. But now I find myself in the middle and not sure how to process this. I wonder if he’s exaggerating or being influenced in what he remembers. Then I wonder about my own memory and the recollections I have about my own childhood. As a writer who’s also being written about, how do I process this in a healthy way? 

Sincerely,

Never saw this coming…

…..

Dear Never Saw This Coming, 

In Bird by Bird, Anne Lamott says, “If people wanted you to write warmly about them, they shouldve behaved better.” How easy it is to be cavalier with this statement when we hold the pen. Yet, when others hold the pen, we shudder. 

You cannot control what your son writes. Nor should you. The process of writing a memoir is the process of voicing our subjective truths. We do this to integrate the experiences that don’t make sense to us. In the process of writing and revising, we discover our wholeness. To apply your version of the truth to his story would stifle his growth. I can see from your letter that you already know this. 

But how do you hold onto your own truth as a writer? And how do you find ways to be okay no matter what he writes? Those are the real questions I need to answer. 

HippoCamp Highlights: Advice on Craft, Platform, and the Writing Life 

HippoCamp Highlights: Advice on Craft, Platform, and the Writing Life 

Every August, I drive to Lancaster, Pennsylvania for one of my favorite writing conferences. Equal parts writer reunion, learning lab, and opportunity to discuss all things creative nonfiction, HippoCamp offers new and established writers a chance to meet and exchange ideas. Attending the three-day conference feels like coming home.

On the drive back to Charlottesville, I thought about what I’d learned at this year’s conference. While I’ll be processing my thoughts for weeks to come, I wanted to share a few golden nuggets with you.

For those of you who don’t write creative nonfiction, I’ve translated my highlights into wisdom for any genre.

The Writing Life

 Writing About Trauma without Retraumatizing Yourself
Lisa Ellison (Hey, that’s me!)
Best Quote (Tweeted by a participant): “If you’re forcing yourself to write about trauma when you’re not ready, you’re retraumatizing yourself.  Emotional wisdom is knowing when the time is right.”

Writing instructors frequently tell us to write about what keeps us up at night. But what if those stories keep you up all night? Or what if those stories make you want to throw up, leave the room, or quit writing altogether? To safely write about trauma, you must P.A.C.E yourself.

P = Prepare for self-care
A = Activate internal wisdom
C = Choose wisely and keep it contained
E = Explore with curiosity and compassion

During my session, I described some of the ways you can P.A.C.E. yourself. In the coming months, I’ll publish a workbook that describes this model and includes exercises designed to help you complete your most difficult projects. Online master classes will be unveiled in early 2020. Stay tuned for updates.

In the meantime, check out my new class: Story Matters: Forgive Your Characters, Empower Yourself

 

Doubt by Any Other Name: Combatting Imposter Syndrome and Finding Your Voice
Athena Dixon
Best Quote: “Determine your kryptonite. If you can identify the issue, you have power over it.”

Imposter Syndrome is a problem that plagues writers of all genres. It’s the source of our “not good enough” feelings. But did you know there are five different types of Imposter Syndromes? You can be a Perfectionist who has to get everything right, an Expert who must know it all, a Natural Genius who would be a total failure if she put in any effort, a Soloist who can never ask for help, or a Superman/Superwoman who has to be the best at everything. Understanding your Imposter type and giving your Imposter Syndrome a name can help you combat it.

Craft

Lightening the Load
Lara Lillibridge, author of Girlish and Mama, Mama, Only Mama
Best Quote: “When you write a story that feels unbearable, there must be moments of breath.”

When it comes to difficult stories, readers need moments of relief. These pauses help the reader recover from emotionally fraught scenes and prepare for new ones. In her presentation, Lara used Lidia Yuknavitch’s The Chronology of Water and Krystal Sital’s Secrets We Kept as exemplar texts. In Chronology, Yuknavitch opens with her daughter’s stillbirth. Her beautiful language plunges you into this terrible moment. Just when you can’t take anymore, she propels you to the surface with sentences like “girl swimmers are hairy.” Each opening line resets the timber of the prose and expectations regarding the emotional intensity of her chapters.

Secrets We Kept is a story of brutal domestic violence that’s passed down through the generations. To allow readers a chance to breathe, Sital created a unique structure where horrific scenes from the past are balanced by conversations in the kitchen between Krystal and her mother or Krystal and her grandmother. Meals serve as a grounding force, reminding you that while this family has suffered, it has also survived.

Keynote Address
Nick Flynn, author of Another Bullshit Night in Suck City, among others
Best Quote: “Every project has its own closed image system that may be contained in a character, object, or landscape.  We find the system through the writing process.”

Sometimes we don’t know what we have until we’ve written it. As you begin to examine your work, look for patterns in your prose. Perhaps you always write about the same things or include the same images. An examination of these patterns can deepen your narrative arc. To find the pattern, create a collage of the images and topics that appear in your scenes. Notice the trends then ask yourself what the story is trying to tell you.

The Workshop

Don’t Call Me Brave: Three Memoirists on Writing and Publishing Hard Truths Before, During, and After the #MeToo Movement

Krystal Sital (moderator), Lynn Hall (panelist, author of Caged Eyes), and Amy Jo Burns (panelist, author of Cinderland)
Best Quotes:
Krystal: “Understanding the importance of what you’re writing and what you can lose are critical considerations when publishing your work. And remember that publication is completely worth it.”
Lynn: “I look forward to a world where survivors can tell their stories without someone calling them ‘brave.’ Brave perpetuates the divide between those who share publicly and those who don’t.”
Amy Jo: “You are not your trauma. You are not your book.”

When someone brings a difficult story to a writing workshop, they’re not looking for pity or props. They want you to assess their writing based on what’s on the page not the contents of their heart. While I could talk at length about how to do this, I want to stick with the points these speakers made. Sometimes calling a person brave is a way to communicate sympathy and pity. The term can also be used to elevate those who publicly share difficult stories above those who don’t. Be mindful of what you say to your fellow writers about their work. When you’re thinking of calling someone brave, ask yourself if this is a way to compensate for your own discomfort. If it is, see what you can do to soothe yourself. If your desire to see someone as brave comes from a place of admiration, honor their bravery by honestly and fairly critiquing their work.

Building Platform

Building Your Platform with Instagram
Allison K. Williams
Best quote: “You do not work for social media. Social media works for you.”

Someone at HippoCamp said this session was like willingly drinking from a firehose. There was so much good water, and unlike most firehoses, the water was good. My biggest takeaway from Building Your Platform with Instagram was around engagement. When it comes to platform building, many of us obsess about follower numbers, but real engagement is more important. Likes and comments demonstrate that readers are interested in what you have to say. Instead of growing your numbers, find ways to authentically engage with your current audience. Ask them questions. Promote other people. Tell a story other people will care about. 

Heart Speak, The Writing Advice Column #6: When You’re a Writer Who’s Also Being Written About

Heart Speak, The Writing Advice Column #5: Writing in the Face of Fragile Family Relationships

This post was originally published on the Moving Forwards Memoir Collective Blog 

 

Dear Lisa,

My memoir is about growing up in a family where the default position in any dispute was to totally cut that relative from our lives. It resulted in me growing up in a bubble with no extended family. As a child this seemed quite normal, but as I grew up, I began to realise how dysfunctional and destructive this behaviour was. 

After the death of my parents, I took a leap of faith and reconnected with a number of relatives I had never met. This shed light on an otherwise dark past and brought much happiness to my life.

It has also led to a conflict. I believe my experiences are not unique and hope telling my story will help others feel less alone. I want to write the truth, but I don’t want to hurt my fragile extended family. How do I write my memoir without hurting the people I love?

Sincerely,

Fragile Family

 …..

Dear Fragile Family,

Your letter contains two questions: Should I write this memoir, and should I publish it? 

The answer to your first question is a resounding yes. As Joan Didion says, we write to understand ourselves. If this family pattern is still bothering you, it’s worth understanding. The writing process might shed additional light on your family situation and increase your compassion for them. Over time, the story you’ve always told might evolve. There’s only one way to find out: write it down. 

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